“I don’t know, let’s find out.”
“Wow,” Harry said when they walked into a towering atrium. Sunlight poured through the glass roof to create a play of light and shade on the brick floor. It reminded him of the Nasher Museum of Art, and Dad trying too hard and Harry not trying hard enough. When he got home, he would try hard enough.
“Imposing, isn’t it?” Annie said.
Harry craned his neck to look up and around, and then down. “Love the red railings.”
Annie smiled. “Come on.”
Ten minutes later, they sat on stools at the counter inside the café, and Harry sent Max another text.
here but you’re not
On my way, dude.
“What are you smiling at?” Annie asked.
“My friend uses perfect grammar in his texts. I don’t.”
“Life’s too short?”
He couldn’t help it; he thought of Mom. “Yeah, I guess. Thanks for the hot chocolate—and for taking the time to hang with me.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “I host visiting students all the time.”
Harry ransacked his backpack to find something to write on. Pulled out all kinds of shit, including his math notebook. He ripped out a few pages from the middle. “Do you mind if I write things down? I get wild squirrelly and forget stuff.” He started to doodle.
“Annie?” A voice came toward them, gaining momentum. Gaining force. “Annie! Annie!” The owner of the voice sounded pissed. “Why didn’t you meet me in the room?”
A big guy with a military haircut and a seriously puffy jacket that made him look all torso and no legs bore down on them. He was carrying a Styrofoam cup. How unenvironmentally friendly.
“Hey.” Annie smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of happiness. Harry knew fear. He could read it, smell it, feel it, taste it from a mile off. Annie was scared of this guy. That wasn’t okay.
The guy frowned.
“Harry, this is Steve.” She said his name quietly, like it could sting.
“Her boyfriend,” the guy said.
“Hi.” Harry jumped up with his hand out, even though Steve seemed more of the hand-breaking than handshaking type. “I’m—” Without warning, his hand shot out in a tic, knocking Steve’s Styrofoam cup into the puffy jacket.
“What the fuck!” Steve jumped back. Coffee dripped down his front. Annie went pale; the café went quiet; you could hear people listening.
Annie was on her feet, too, rushing at Steve with a ton of paper napkins. She looked terrified. A girl should never be frightened of her boyfriend. Harry stood up straight. If only Max were here. Max would know what to do; Max would defuse this.
“It was an accident,” Annie said quickly. “Harry has—”
“Harry.” Steve snarled his name and lowered his face inches from Harry’s. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw the campus cop from the yard. Was it a coincidence, or was the guy stalking him? He really, really wished Max were here.
“What’s your problem? You a spaz or something?”
A spaz? A spaz!
“No, you moron.” It had been a long time since Harry had felt rage. Burning, I-will-kill-you rage. It came from nowhere. A sea of red; a wall of fire. “I am not a spaz. I have a neurological condition.”
Steve sneered. He sneered.
Harry lunged at Steve; Annie screamed. A blurred movement, a smashing sound, a gasp, voices. Rough hands grabbed him, pinned his arms behind his back.
“Take your hands off me!” Harry yelled. “Get your hands off me!”
“Calm down, son,” a deep voice said.
Harry’s leg shot backward in some weird, contorted tic and made contact with bone. It was like someone pushed a remote control button and all he could do was flail. His limbs began swinging to their own rhythm.
He was on the floor. Facedown on a dirty floor. Someone heavy was on top of him. Harry couldn’t stop ticcing. His shoulder was going to pop out of its socket.
“We have a kid out of control. Violent,” a man said, and a reply crackled through a walkie-talkie. The cop? “Yeah. Kicked me. Call 911.”